


Thylacine

by st_aurafina



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Australia, Cryptozoology, F/F, Gen, The Five, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:05:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helen Magnus was resigned to taking the slow road back to the twenty-first century alone without changing history. Then Imogen Worth was found alive under the rubble. Now, with an unexpected ward and paradox at her side, the road to the future has taken a startling turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set after episode 4.01, Tempus.
> 
> Art and fanmix by skylar0grace, [here](http://skylar0grace.livejournal.com/217510.html)
> 
> Warning for explicit medical/surgical detail in Chapter Three. 
> 
> Thank you to lilacsigil and dbalthasar for their help with this fic, and to the wipbigbang mods who gave me a reason to finish it.

  
[](http://skylar0grace.livejournal.com/217510.html)   


One hundred and thirteen years back in her own past, on a rosy morning on the top of the London Sanctuary – Watson's Sanctuary, though she couldn't tell him that yet, not until her younger self had established new premises in Old City – Helen found herself suddenly a woman of leisure. It was rather a giddying sensation, a feeling of slamming back into one's seat as the brakes came on. She sagged a little against James' body. 

"I have no idea what I'm to do next," she said. 

James nodded. "Tea would be my first recommendation. When was the last time you had the time to sit and think?" 

"Months," she said. "Months, and a hundred years. Honestly, I'm not sure even tea will be adequate." She was startled to discover that the idea of having nothing to do was utterly terrifying. 

"Helen, please tell me there is not a future where tea is inadequate." James turned and led them both to the stairs. "Lie to me if you must." 

Helen laughed, and patted his arm. "Tea would be both wonderful and entirely satisfying." It was only partially a lie. 

Fortunately, at the bottom of the stairs, watched sternly by the butler, stood one of James' brigade of urchins. Helen wracked her memory for the girl's name – Rosie? Violet? Something floral, at any rate – and wondered at the fact that she could not remember what had become of the girl the first time she had passed through this time. 

James crouched down to her level. "Do you have something for me, May?" 

"From Mr Gaddis at the morgue," she said. "He says 'Tell him I've got me one that shouldn't be breathing, and he ought to come and have look.'" She waited patiently while James fished out a coin, snatched it and bolted for the street, pausing only to poke out her tongue at the butler as he closed the door behind her.

"Well," said James. "I do apologise, but I'd best see to that now." He gestured towards the morning room, where breakfast would be laid on. 

Helen snorted, and the butler jumped at such an unladylike sound, though James was, by now, inured to modern Helen's mannerisms. "As if I'm going to miss out on that enticing mystery." Something to do, she thought with relief. Decisions later. Action now. 

It was fortunate that James was in the habit of bribing the mortuary assistants to call him when strange things appeared on their slabs. It was also fortunate that his shady contacts valued his payment above that of the city's: any right-thinking person would have shipped Imogen straight to the hospital as soon as they discovered a sluggish pulse at her neck. 

"Thought it were one of them vampire johnnies till I checked her breath with a mirror like you said," said Gaddis, a man in a bloodstained apron. "I read Mr Stoker's book. Best to be informed in this job, I tell you." 

James pressed a handful of coins into the man's hand. "Give us a few moments, if you would." 

Helen's Victorian demeanour lasted exactly as long as it took for Gaddis to give James a knowing wink and disappear from the room. Then she was a doctor once again, and a modern one at that, throwing off the blanket and unbuttoning Imogen's bib and blouse, despite James' noise of protest. She held up her hand for silence, and pressed her ear to Imogen's chest. 

"There's nothing… wait! No, it's gone. Damn it, whatever it is, it's very faint." 

James wordlessly pulled a stethoscope from his apparently voluminous pockets and passed it to her. She had forgotten that about him, how he always had to hand the very thing she needed. 

"You have the workers here watching out for vampires?" she asked, as she moved the stethoscope across Imogen's chest. 

James' expression was inscrutable. "I am nothing if not a practical man. I doubt that Nikola's ambitions have changed in the future." 

The mortuary worker was right: pulse and respiration were almost undetectable. Imogen's nail beds and lips were as blue as if life had ceased and her reflexes unresponsive. When Helen listened carefully through the brass bell of the stethoscope, there was discernible valve noise and the tiniest inhalation of air. They came every thirty seconds by James' pocket watch. 

"It's not enough to sustain life," said Helen. "I've no idea what could be causing it." 

James leaned over the table, intrigued despite himself. "Is it life at all? Could this be some artefact of respiration, perhaps related to the onset of rigor?" 

Helen shook her head. "The timing makes it seem more deliberate. I wonder if it's related to the Praxian technology Worth used to reverse her illness? Perhaps it's some kind of metabolic hibernation." Helen brushed her fingertips against Imogen's pale forehead. "It makes sense: reduce body temperature, reduce oxygen demand, preserve brain function. A drastic measure, no doubt, but a life-saving one." 

James looked down at the girl on the table. "Very drastic indeed. How long do you think this state will persist?" 

"I have no idea." 

"Do you think she'll recover?" James' expression was intent. "You said it yourself: Imogen's death is critical to the timeline. And I don't know if I can, in all honesty, keep the fact that she's alive from Worth. She's his daughter, Helen." 

They looked at each other across the slab, and Helen could almost hear him say the words. "You think it would be much more convenient if she died!" 

James bristled. "Don't spare yourself from that accusation! Not twenty-four hours ago, you were mixing a toxin to kill her. What did you think would happen, meddling in things of such magnitude? The assumption that your actions are somehow less damaging than Worth's because of an arbitrary moral judgement is plain arrogance. In terms of preserving the time line, if you want to save this girl, you're no better than Worth."

Helen's shock and surprise must have shown on her face because he took her hand. "I apologise; that was unnecessarily harsh. I do not wish this poor child dead, not at all. It's just that you have been very free and easy with the rules of time travel, as long as they suit your purpose, but let me point out that these rules led you to conclude that suicide was the tidiest end to this adventure." 

Helen settled the idea about her, as she looked down at the girl on the mortuary table. "Then I must let those rules go. If I can survive in this timeline, then I don't see why she shouldn't have the same chance. Poor girl, what kind of life has she led? Adam Worth used her death as a reason to wreak havoc. Perhaps this is nature's way of giving something back?" 

James but stepped back from the table, pretending not to smile. "I am shocked to discover that the Helen Magnus of the future can change her mind once she has decided a thing. What can the years ahead hold for us?" 

Helen tucked the blanket in around Imogen's body to preserve what little body heat she had retained. "Don't worry, James, I don't subscribe entirely to whimsy. There's a lot of work ahead of us."

\---

James said nothing about the improvised spinal board nor the cervical collar made from an old newspaper. Helen was grateful for his discretion; she did not have the mental energy to shield him from knowledge of the future, not while she was establishing treatment options in Victorian England. 

She had no antibiotics, and no modern IVs, and without them, surgery would be as life threatening as the injuries Imogen had already sustained. Bottled oxygen was still a fad, but she should be able to acquire a breathable mix from somewhere. People will think she and James were having private laughing gas parties, but people had thought worse of the Magnus family in the past. And in the future. 

The infirmary had always been Helen's domain, and Helen's younger self was constantly present, so there was no possibility of treating Imogen there. The patient was therefore installed in an upstairs guest room. Poor James played the packhorse, lugging furniture and equipment up from the lab. For Helen, the next few hours passed in a blur as she worked with Imogen, assessing her injuries, and trying to determine the degree to which her metabolism had been interrupted. 

Sandwiches appeared on the bedside table at some stage, and she had a constant awareness of James' presence, but her main focus was Imogen. The girl had a serious head wound; Helen's fingers twitched for the MRI that would take minutes and reveal glorious detail. She was discovering that every diagnostic decision required a kind of mental acrobatics, swooping back to first principles while balancing risk against benefit. This routine had to be performed in secret, without resources, hidden in a guest bedroom in her own home. 

"It's like a French farce," she said out loud, vigorously stirring salt into a mixture of gum and water. She had decided to improvise an EEG to gather data on Imogen's brain activity, but that required her to reinvent conductive dermal pads, and dermal pads needed saline gel. In the corner, under a sheet, lurked a galvanometer that Tesla had abandoned years ago. She hoped it still worked. She hoped she could convince the thing it was actually an EEG recorder. As an electrician, she made a wonderful doctor. 

James slipped through the door with a coil of cable over his shoulder, and slung it on top of the galvanometer. He stood, watching her work, and for a moment it really was like old times. "You're going to be using modern techniques, then?" His question was careful. 

"I can't commit to treating someone, James, and not give them the full benefit of my training and experience." Helen looked down at the girl lying in the bed. "She's already outside of the timeline. I think we've decided the time for playing coy is past." 

"She's not the only one at risk here," said James, with a sigh. "As much as I'm riddled with curiosity, I don't want to be blithe about changing the future." He stood up straighter. "Well, that feels better; now I've a pledge of sorts. You do what you must to save Imogen's life. I will keep my nose out of your business." 

Helen laughed - how long had it been since she had done that? - and kissed his cheek. "Darling, I mean no disrespect, but I doubt you'll be able to do much with what you see here." 

James patted her hand. "Now, don't tempt me. Finest mind in the Empire, remember?" 

"Very well. I shall send you on an errand, for the sake of the timeline," said Helen. She picked up her pot of conductive gel, and stirred it briskly. "Would you go and fetch me all the insulating tape you can lay your hands on?"

James bowed with a smile, and left the room. 

Helen dabbed a little of the paste in discrete areas over Imogen's forehead. There was no way she could get more than five or six leads in place with any accuracy. The minimum for best practice in the twenty first century was nineteen, and in her own lab in Old City, she had a cap with nearly three hundred points. Six would have to be enough, at least to allow her to recognise major wave forms. She bandaged the electrodes in place, then took a handful of wires to splice into leads. 

The door burst open. Helen wheeled on the intruder with an enraged expression, then stopped, while her mind did the by-now familiar dance of "What was this person up to in 1898?" 

"Someone's been rummaging in my drawers," said Tesla. "I don't like it. Or, rather, I don't like that I wasn't here to see it. What have you done to your hair? You look like a penny dreadful heroine." He threw himself on the opposite bed and crossed his hands on his chest, regarding her. "I think I like it. You should embrace melodrama. I wouldn't want you to get staid in your old age." 

Helen shook her head. "You have no idea, Nikola." 

Nikola sniffed delicately. "Someone's been down to the mortuary." He finally noticed Imogen, and looked back at Helen with an expression of fascination and horror. "Helen! Are you reanimating corpses?" 

"She's not a corpse." Helen shoved the wires at him. "Here, make yourself useful. I need these to connect to the galvanometer, eight channels." She scrawled the ranges down on a piece of paper and thrust them at him. "Here are your frequencies." 

Nikola lolled back on the bed and looked at the numbers. "And what units are we using?" 

"Hertz," said Helen, without thinking. 

Nikola leaned forward, suddenly intrigued again. "What hurts?" 

"My head hurts, talking to you." Helen thwapped him on the head with the bundle of wires. "The unit is cycles per second. I'm measuring the electric potential across her scalp. Now, are you feeling obliging? Or should I just do it myself?" 

Nikola uncoiled the wire and lay it out in lengths on the blanket. "I must say, I like this new, forceful, dark-haired Helen Magnus." 

"Trust me," said Helen. "She's not all that different to the Helen you know." 

\---

The primitive EEG showed diffuse alpha waves: Imogen had brain activity, but she was in a deep coma. 

"It would be useful to have a better picture of that head injury," said Helen. "I wonder if I could risk an X-Ray? I'm sure we have the equipment somewhere. When does Nikola give his lecture on radiant energy, again?" 

"Last year," said James, distracted, half in and half out of the doorway. Suddenly, he ducked into the hall and pulled the door shut. Helen saw his heels under the door; he was standing guard. Her own voice carried through the wood, and she was struck by a feeling of déjà vu. 

"What on earth are you doing, lurking up here? I've just had the most remarkable conversation with Nikola about hair dye." Helen of the past lowered her voice. "I believe he's drunk. Again."

James cleared his throat. "Goodness. Would you like me to see him home before he damages the wiring?"

"No, I've put him in a cab already. Are you coming downstairs? I've had a parcel of fossils from Father, he's sent some wonderful specimens." 

"You lay them out. I'll be down in a moment." James waited until the footsteps faded before slipping back into the room. He leaned against the door and closed his eyes. "I don't think I can maintain this façade for much longer," he said, with exhaustion in his voice. 

Helen frowned. "Do you know, I'm certain we've had that conversation before. I hope we're not forming some kind of recursive time loop. I remember coming up here to find you, and you were standing by the door, just like that."

James coloured a little. "Yes, well. It's possible we have. I've used this room, on occasion, when Nigel or one of the others showed up on your doorstep out of sorts. Far better for them to have a safe bed than to sober up in the street." 

"And I'm sure they were very grateful for you to tuck them in," Helen said, without thinking, as she studied the print-out. James of the future would have merely raised an eyebrow at her teasing, but James of the past was shocked into startled silence. She opened her mouth to apologise, decided it would only cause more injury, and instead nodded towards the door. "You'd best hurry along, or she'll be back. I remember how much I enjoyed those parcels from Father." 

"Yes, quite," said James, and bolted.

\---

The next morning was Sunday, and the entire household poured out to church. Allowing for worship and social calls, Helen had the house to herself for a good five hour window. She took advantage of the empty kitchen to make her own breakfast, and to spread her papers across the broad wooden table. Imogen's life signs still held steady at that incredibly slow rate, but there was some troubling diffusion in the readings from the EEG. Her head wound was severe, and though the damage was progressing slowly thanks to her slowed metabolism, it progressed still, and faster than her body could heal. 

It was worrying. A compressed skull fracture needed steroids, surgery and a hell of a lot of luck, even in the future. Septic technique was in practice now - she'd always been a fastidious surgeon, in any case - but they simply didn't have the resources of the twenty-first century. In terms of infection, there was little more risky than opening the cranium. 

Helen sat back in her chair, struck with the realisation of how fiercely she had waded into this battle for Imogen's well-being. After the destruction of Praxis, after the death and mayhem that Adam had caused, to be given the chance to put one life right was like finding hope at the bottom of Pandora's box. Imogen had been so many things, symbolically: to Adam, to the Five. Helen was filled with certainty on this matter. If there was one person who deserved a normal life, as far as that was possible, it was this girl. 

The kitchen door opened, and Helen started; the staff should still be at church or on their half-days for a few hours yet. 

"I demand to know what's going on," said Nikola, eyes dark and teeth bared. He threw a chair aside with a clatter. "I've just seen you leaving church, all blonde hair and delicate manners." He leaned over Helen, nostrils wide. "You're not Helen Magnus. You don't even really smell like her." 

Helen put down her teacup with measured calm, then slapped Nikola across the face. "You're hysterical. Stop sniffing me at once." 

Nikola collapsed into a chair. "Well, perhaps you are Helen. But you're not _my_ Helen." 

"I never was _your_ Helen, Nikola. Don't be absurd." 

"But there are two of you, yes?" Nikola wiggled his fingers in her direction, as if he could beckon the truth out of her.

Helen ignored the question. She gestured instead at the teeth and claws. "Put those away before Cook comes in and dies of fright. You know how hard it is to find staff that will stay here more than a week." 

Nikola leaned forward again, fascinated. "It's odd. You look like her in every way, but it's almost as if you're playing the part of Doctor Helen Magnus. You're not going to tell me anything, are you?" 

"What's your theory on the matter?" she asked. Nikola could always be relied upon to pontificate on things about which he knew very little. 

"Henry James' brother William – have you met him? Very depressing man, wonderful stash of intoxicants. He told me there are many universes, layered upon each other like tissue paper, and that they differ from each other only in tiny ways. I think you're another universe's Helen Magnus, somehow foisted upon us." He twirled a hand airily. "Of course, we had consumed conspicuous amounts of mescaline at the time of this conversation." 

Helen thought it over. It would be helpful to have another assistant. And Nikola was perverse enough to keep the secret of her existence, just for the sheer pleasure of knowing something that nobody else did. 

"Very well, Nikola. Let's call that a working theory." 

Nikola cupped his chin in his hand. "Wonderful. Now, tell me everything about the Nikola in your dimension." 

Helen shook her head. "Later. For now, I need you to go to the abattoir tonight and acquire about a pound of adrenal glands. Bovine, if possible, but sheep will do at a pinch." 

Nikola wrinkled his brow. "But I'm an engineer. I don't do the messy sciences." He flicked at his cuffs fussily. 

"Says the vampire." Helen crossed her arms, and looked at him sternly. 

"I suppose you have a point." Nikola stood up and brushed himself down. "I'm expecting lurid stories of my alternate self. Don't disappoint me. What are you going to do while I'm gone?" 

"I am going to borrow a dentist's drill, on the off chance I need to drill into my patient's head," said Helen. 

Nikola grinned wide and merry as he headed for the door. "Ah, it must be a marvellous place, the world you came from. I do wish I could see it." 

The door closed behind him, and Helen smiled. "You will, Nikola, I promise."  
\---

"They're cleaning out Adam Worth's rooms," said James. "The rumour is that he's defaulted on huge debts and cannot even bury his own child." He stood in the doorway with an uncertain expression. The guest room had been transformed: Imogen's bed was in the centre of the room, and the EEG wires trailed over the iron framework to Nikola's galvanometer behind her. Helen had added a hefty oxygen canister, and the rubber tubing needed to convey the gas to Imogen's nostrils. 

While she waited for Nikola to return from the abattoir, Helen had spent the day washing the walls and floor, in preparation for surgery, if it were required. Now, a bowl of beef kidneys, floating in ice water, sat on the bench ready for dissection. 

Helen, for ease of movement, now wore breeches and a loose white shirt. There was little point in pretending modesty any longer, since James knew who she was and Nikola merely found her unladylike behaviour fascinating. 

"I remember," she said. "We were so shocked that he would abandon poor Imogen before she was even in the ground, but from this perspective, it seems quite fortunate. I imagine I'm off organising the funeral right now." She put down her scalpel, struck with curiosity. "What on earth are you doing for a body?" 

The two of them turned to the bed in the centre of the room. Poor Imogen was holding steady, pale and silent against the white linen. 

James shook his head. "I convinced the other Helen to forgo a viewing. There's a body in the casket, but it's not Imogen, God forgive me." 

Helen resisted the urge to roll her eyes; one thing she did not miss about this era was the obsessive veneration of death and mourning. James was doing the right thing, culturally, for Imogen, and that was a kindness. She concentrated on her dissection, slipping the scalpel through the tough connective tissue around the kidney and teasing out the delicate adrenal gland. Enough of these, and she'd be able to extract and purify cortisol to reduce the swelling on Imogen's brain. 

"Helen," James began. 

"Don't," said Helen, with the kidney in hand. "I know that this looks shocking and inhuman to you, but it's medicine nonetheless. This may not be dignified, but it is not as grotesque as it appears. And it will help Imogen, I promise you." 

James stepped into the room, and put a hand on her shoulder. "I understand – I'm not squeamish, Helen. And I know well enough the lengths to which you will go to preserve life. I have never doubted you, and I hope that in the future I never do." He sighed, and looked down at Imogen. "I was going to ask what you intend to do when the child wakes up." 

Helen carefully placed the pyramid of adrenal tissue into the mortar. "Oh." 

She hadn't thought about that. Or, rather, she had been avoiding thinking about that, and she had just realised why. She raised a hand, as if to press it to her mouth, then realised it was covered in blood. Instead, she stared at the gore on her fingers. Now there was nobody to tell about Ashley, and about her own losses, and damn it, how could she be so oblivious? Call yourself a scientist, Helen? You're a self-deluding fool. 

"My dear, are you unwell?" James took her elbow, as if to escort her to a seat. 

She held up her hand. "I'm fine, thank you. It's just that I'm not accustomed to thinking of the future in that way." 

"I think, perhaps, it would be prudent to do so," James said, with a wry expression. "You're a good doctor in 1898; I can only imagine your skills are exemplary after a century of practice. If anyone can bring Imogen back from where she is now, I believe it would be you." 

Helen picked up the pestle, and began the grisly process of macerating adrenal tissue. "Your confidence in me is very flattering." 

"Realistic would be a better word," he said. "I'll leave you to your work." 

\---

She infused the cortisol solution at eight in the evening, while the sounds of dinner drifted up from downstairs. Nikola had invited himself around, too fascinated with the way the Sanctuary seethed with secrets, and now he was fencing with James across the dinner table in front of her younger, oblivious self. 

"He'd better be careful," she said to the sleeping Imogen. "He always underestimates me. It's one of his worst failings. Still is, a hundred years later." 

There was nobody in the room to see her, so with tentative fingers she reached forward and gently brushed the hair away from Imogen's face. Nothing happened. Of course nothing happened: Helen wasn't indulging a Sleeping Beauty fantasy. Nothing changed inside herself, either. The hurt that was always with her, the place in her heart where Ashley was remembered, did not ease. Neither did it ache more. 

She laughed weakly. How absurd. Then, while the three proper inhabitants of the house moved onto the pudding, she made a raid on her own bedroom for a hairbrush. Poor Imogen. Her hair was a terrible tangle around the electrodes, and Helen was fairly sure that she would hate that.

\---

Nikola was more than a little under the weather when he brought her dinner on a tray. "Don't worry," he said, words slurring just a little as he wove between the medical equipment. "Your other half is tucked up in bed – all alone, more's the pity – but you may safely roam the corridors like a family ghost." He waved an open bottle with his free hand to illustrate his point. 

"I don't think so," said Helen, and snatched the tray before he upended it over Imogen's bed. 

Nikola lounged on the floor, one leg crooked up close to his chest as he drank from the bottle and watched Helen eat. "You really aren't like her at all. You take great big mouthfuls of food like a man." He leered. "I like a woman with an appetite." 

"Dream on, Nikola," she said with her mouth full, just for the satisfaction of shocking the supposedly unshockable Tesla. "I know you very well, and you're neither charming nor funny when you're drunk. Nor are you particularly clever." She shouldn't tease him. It was probably creating a paradox, challenging his idea of a Victorian woman. Actually, that did explain a lot about Nikola. Perhaps this was the timeline's way of healing itself? It was as good a theory as any. 

Nikola's eyes narrowed. He scrambled to his feet, and stood over the bed with his hand outstretched. "Something's happening. Lots of electrical potential gathering." 

Helen put the tray aside. By now she could hear the pens scratching frantically, recording a massive spike in brain activity. "Damn it!" 

"What?" Nikola's eyes were wide with alarm. 

"Seizure," said Helen, just as Imogen's body arched upwards. Her mind went blank. What the hell was she using as anticonvulsant therapy in the nineteenth century? Bromides were worse than useless. Paraldehyde would work, but she didn't keep it in the house, and that meant time to send someone to a surgery to get some. 

She turned to Nikola. "Can you draw current from her mind? Reduce the electrical activity?" 

Nikola looked doubtful and slightly nauseous. "I don't know what you're talking about, and I've absolutely no idea how to go about it." 

Helen slapped his hand down on Imogen's forehead. "Improvise. I've been doing it for days, it's remarkably refreshing." 

The electric potential of neurons misfiring in Imogen's brain was tiny compared to the great voltages that Nikola could wield, so nothing spectacular happened beyond Imogen's body going slack under his hand. He still wore the dubious expression, but left his hand in position. "Did I kill her?" 

Helen watched the pens sketching Imogen's brain activity settle into a new rhythm. "No. In fact, I think you've helped her through this crisis."

"Do you have to sound so surprised?" Nikola said with a pout. "Maybe in this alternate dimension you come from, you should believe in your Tesla more. If he's anything like me, he's likely a very talented individual." 

Helen took his face in her hand and kissed his brow. "He's a terrible, wicked man, but somehow he's always in the right place at the right time." 

Nikola smiled, pleased. "That sounds like the Tesla I know and love."

\---

Helen slept in the same room as Imogen; it was safer, and meant that she was there quickly if something went wrong. She curled under the blankets of the spare bed, toes resting on the heated brick wrapped in flannel, grateful that her younger self had embraced electricity and installed it through the entire house. She hated reading by candlelight. 

In the centre of the room, the pens scratched away at the paper. Since the seizure, Imogen's breathing rate and heartbeat had crept up closer to human ranges - still slow, but definitely life-sustaining. Without proper diagnostic equipment, Helen couldn't be sure if this was related to Nikola's actions, or if the Praxian induced hibernation was withdrawing. And if the Praxian treatment was wearing off, did that mean that the head injury was healing, so the dormant state was no longer required? Or that the treatment itself was no longer working, which would in turn cause Imogen's remission to fail?

She put down the medical journal and turned on her side to watch the rise and fall of Imogen's chest. She had watched Ashley sleep in a similar way, first as an infant, for fear that she would stop breathing. Then again later, when Ashley was four or five years old, just for the pleasure of seeing her fold boneless into bed, exhausted from a day packed with activity. 

She should get used to making these comparisons, she told herself. It didn't mean anything. Imogen was not her daughter, but she was a child under Helen's care. It only made sense for the emotional part of her mind to seek a connection. She could let that thought sit for a moment, grow accustomed to the idea. 

"I suppose we shall have to make plans, you and I, when you wake," she said to the sleeping girl. "We can go anywhere in the world, as long as nobody I know is there to catch us." There was suddenly so much potential, with a whole globe to explore. Even the idea of avoiding herself on her extensive travels held a certain intrigue. Helen fell asleep, lulled by the memory of steamboat engines and the wash of waves against a steel hull. 

In the morning, Imogen's EEG showed wave forms consistent with sleep. At some stage during the night, her brain had begun to dream.


	2. Chapter 2

The day of Imogen's funeral was suitably dim and rainy. James was attending, of course, and he and Helen of the past had anguished long over the complicated nuances of ritual that came from Imogen's unusual circumstances. 

Now, with a century behind her, Helen wondered why she had wasted so much time worrying about the tiniest details of the funeral: whether or not she should wear crepe herself, whether it was an unseemly indulgence to have flowers on the casket, and if she had correctly gauged the careful balance between the tragic death of a child and the shameful absence of the child's father. 

She watched the palaver going on in the entrance hall from the balcony above, as her younger self bustled James out of the door and into a carriage. 

"Ridiculous," said Nikola, standing beside her. "The way they claim this is a devoutly Christian act, when the whole thing is riddled with paganism and idolatry. Not that I have a problem with paganism and idolatry. It's just that these people would deny the fact until their faces turned blue, and that kind of smugness makes me ill."

"They'll spend the whole afternoon whispering about her father and explaining that he went mad with grief." Helen leaned on the bannister now that James and her past self had disappeared through the front door. 

"Finally," Nikola sighed, as the door closed with a heavy thud. "Now we're alone. Tell me everything about this other Tesla. I can only assume that we're lovers, you and I." 

Helen laughed. She wasn't sure Nikola entirely believed his own story, but it made for a fun and plausible context for her presence here. "I'm sorry, Nikola, but I've never even considered the possibility." 

"Impossible!" Nikola was appalled. "It must be the most unspeakable place. A living hell." 

From behind them came a soft voice. "Excuse me, sir? I'm not sure what hospital this is – I called for a nurse, but none came. I'm looking for my father." 

Imogen stood before them, barefoot on the thick carpet in her nightgown. Behind her, like so many coloured ribbons, streamed the electrodes from the EEG. 

Nikola gazed at Imogen in sudden recognition, then turned to look over his shoulder at the black-trimmed carriage visible through the tall glass windows. "Wait. Didn't they just leave to attend your…" 

Helen clapped her hand over his mouth. "Come along, Imogen. I'll help you back to bed." She took the girl's hand and led her down the corridor. 

"Thank you," said Imogen, faintly. "It's Doctor Magnus, isn't? I recall you came to see me once," her voice trailed off as she struggled to remember the exact series of events. 

It was in your father's dingy little flat, Helen thought, where he kept you stashed after he abducted you. And I sincerely hope you don't remember what took place there. 

Imogen sat on the bed while Helen conducted an examination. She could hear Nikola's nervous footsteps outside the door, and when she could stand it no longer, she threw the door open to stare at him.

"You told me you weren't reanimating corpses!" He at least had the good sense to hiss the words so that Imogen couldn't hear. 

Helen summoned all the authority of her years and pointed in the direction of the kitchen stairs. "I am doing no such thing, Nikola. Now, do something useful, and ask Cook to make some soup." 

"I will, and I'll tell her to put plenty of garlic in it, too." Nikola thumped down the stairs at a great rate. "And salt! I've heard that's the thing for stopping the undead!" 

"He's a very strange man," said Imogen, mildly. She still sat on the bed. For the first time in her life, Helen gave thanks for the calm and unquestioning nature of gently-raised Victorian children.

"He's quite a character indeed," Helen said, and took Imogen's wrist to measure her pulse. Seventy beats per minute, and lovely pink fingers. She took a deep breath. This was the point where she needed to start making decisions. 

"This isn't a hospital, is it, Doctor Magnus?" Imogen turned her head gingerly to look around. "This room is too small to be a ward, and I haven't seen any nurses anywhere." 

Helen checked the head wound, and Imogen winced under her fingers. "I'm sorry, Imogen. You took quite the bump to your head. Are you having problems remembering what happened?" Helen had to concentrate quite hard not to cross her fingers. It would be so much more convenient if Imogen had no recollection of the confrontation in her father's rooms. 

"It's odd," said Imogen with a frown. "I remember being outside - wearing boots and everything. I haven't worn boots for the longest time. And Father had styled his hair in the strangest way. He shaved off all his whiskers!" 

Helen watched as Imogen strained to piece things together. She held her breath, and hoped for a lucky break. 

Imogen's expression cleared. "Oh, did I have a fever? Matron - the Matron at the hospital, I mean - she said that one can see the most astonishing things when one is febrile. And I am febrile quite a lot, lately." 

Poor girl, with only medical frameworks to explain the things she had seen. Helen sighed in relief and patted her hand. "You did have a fever, Imogen. That and your concussion seem to have left you a little muddled." She took the girl's hand, and sat down next to her on the bed. "Darling, there's some bad news I must tell you about your father. Are you feeling very brave?" 

Imogen's eyes flooded with tears, but she nodded. "It's all right, Doctor Magnus, I'm quite accustomed to bad news." 

Helen felt like the worst creature on earth for using Victorian language and euphemism to explain to Imogen that her illness appeared to be cured but her father was dead. She let Imogen cry into her lap, and stroked her hair. This was for the best, she told herself. There was no way to explain what had actually happened, and Imogen's upbringing - so very different from Helen's own; Gregory Magnus encouraged his daughter to question everything - at least gave her a context for understanding the situation as she saw it. This way, Imogen could keep the memory of her father: working desperately to save her, constantly dedicated to her well-being. It wasn't much, but it was something to cling to, even if it was largely a lie. 

Later, as she sipped at the soup that Nikola had brought up, Imogen watched Helen pack up the galvanometer. "Am I to be your ward, Doctor Magnus? Is that why I'm in your house?" 

Helen turned the idea over in her mind, and found it not unpleasant. "Would you like that, Imogen?" 

"I have no family to speak of, now," she said, looking down at her spoon. "It was always just Father and I." 

"I know what that's like," said Helen. "I have very few memories of my own mother. But Imogen, I'm going to be leaving England quite soon. Would you be happy to travel with me?" 

Imogen's eyes lit up. "I've never been anywhere, except Brighton once, for my health. I think I'd like to see a different place." 

\---

That night, she and James sat down with a globe, striking off continents where Helen was likely to cross tracks with herself or with anyone who knew her. Helen wanted to be well away from Europe before 1914, though the reason she gave James was that the Continent was far too close for comfort. The southern cape of Africa would be a battlefield very soon. South America was a possibility, except that Helen of this time travelled there extensively. While Helen of the future had a good memory, she couldn't necessarily put an exact date to her visits to Lima or Curaçao or Santiago. Australia was looking more and more likely. 

"You'll have to wear women's clothing, now that you've a young lady to raise," said James. He tapped his cigar on the glass tray beside him, much more mellow now that the Helen of his time had retired for the night. 

"Oh, but these are the colonies, James. Anything goes in the colonies." Helen swirled her port, and smiled at him. His body language had shifted the moment he had admitted her to his study. Now he sat by the fire with a more relaxed posture, and made gently sly jokes at her expense. This was the James most familiar to her in her own timeline. It was a surprise to realise he had always had this side to him, but for the sake of propriety, had not shown it to her for decades. How strange and lovely to learn such a thing about an old friend she'd never thought to see again. This journey had begun with vengeance and determination, but the longer she stayed and closer she looked, the more tiny wonderful things she discovered. 

"And you'll both need new identities, I suppose. We can't have records of a Helen Magnus or Imogen Worth living lives where they ought not to be." 

Helen made a face. "Do you think so? Really? I do intend to keep a very low profile, you know. I doubt it will be necessary." 

James laughed. "If you manage to stay out of trouble, I'll eat my hat. No, better, I'll eat your hat. That hideous one with the huge orange peony." 

"Really, James." Helen favoured him with a mock scowl. "I promise you, that hat will be the absolute thing next spring. Other women will be green with envy." 

He held up his hand. "Please. I couldn't stand it if you fractured the timeline giving away fashion tips." He leaned forward, suddenly intent. "Helen. Forgive me if this is too forward – and I know there are many ways to interpret what I'm about to say – but I'd be honoured to lend you my name. I can pull strings to get you both papers. Nobody is looking for Helen and Imogen Watson."

Helen looked at him, speechless. 

"I'm no fool, Helen. I know that this is likely the last time that we – we of our respective timelines, that is – shall see each other. If you would permit me, I would consider it a legacy of this brief and unlikely time we've had together. I will take my slow trip through time, and know that you are walking the same path on the other side of the world, and that will be a comfort, of sorts." He slumped back in his chair. "And if that isn't the most complicated and roundabout way to not quite propose to someone, I don't want to know another way." 

Helen threw her arms around him and pressed a kiss into his hair, breathing in cigar smoke and pomade. "My dearest, dearest friend. I would be delighted." 

\---

James saw them both down to Southampton and aboard the steamer Shalimar, bound for Melbourne. They said a brief goodbye then Helen bustled Imogen up the gangway and on board the ship. 

She and Imogen leaned on the rail and waved to James as the ship pulled out, then stayed until Helen felt Imogen wilt beside her. 

"Come along, my dear. We need to make sure you don't overdo anything, We've a long journey ahead of us." Helen cast one last glance over her shoulder as she and Imogen walked back to their cabin. 

Imogen sat on the edge of her bed and watched Helen make a brisk security check, clearing each room in the small apartment that made up their suite. 

Their things had already been unpacked and arranged neatly. As expected for First Class passengers, their rooms were serviced by a number of chambermaids, including a lady's maid to help them dress and keep their wardrobe. Helen of the twenty first century would never again have that particularly privileged ability that rendered the help invisible, so she had asked that their rooms not be disturbed without her permission. This had garnered some odd looks from the Chief Purser, but it ensured that their rooms remained as secure as possible. 

"Aunt Helen," Imogen started, then smiled shyly at the unfamiliar words. They had settled on Aunt Helen as an appropriate term of address with which they were both comfortable. "Is there something dangerous about? I don't mean to pry, only, we've had to change our names, you see. And now you seem worried that someone has been in our rooms." 

Helen perched on the bedside next to her, and put an arm around the girl's shoulder while she thought. Imogen wasn't incorrect in her assessment. There were threats, and not just the intrinsic danger of two women travelling unaccompanied in this era. Helen didn't know Adam's precise movements during this decade, but of course, this was not something she could explain. 

"There's no danger, as such, Imogen. But I am an exceptionally cautious person," she said, but Imogen laughed out loud at this idea. 

"No, you're exceptionally daring, Aunt Helen! You're not afraid of anything, as far as I can tell. And you've been to so many places already. No, I am afraid that you are an adventurous person." 

"Well, that may be so, but perhaps I've survived so far precisely because I am cautious. There's a good hypothesis for you." 

Imogen leaned her head against Helen's shoulder, and took her hand. "If it's anything to do with my father's death, you'd tell me, wouldn't you? You know, he wouldn't say for a long time how very sick I was, even though I could tell from the doctors' and nurses' faces. I don't want anyone to hide the truth from me ever again." 

"Then let's make that a family rule from now on." Helen tamped down her guilt, and kissed the top of Imogen's head to seal the deal.

\---

Nikola managed to keep himself hidden for nearly three days before he appeared and confessed all, fortunately before Helen shot him. She had been certain that someone was watching them, from the first time that she and Imogen had taken a promenade on deck. That prickle at the back of the neck that she had come to trust had only grown from that point on. She began counting the number of times passengers passed their table in the day room. Imogen didn't notice: she was tussling with geometry. Much to Imogen's horror, Helen had decided the journey would be an excellent opportunity for her to catch up on the copious amount of school she had missed due to her illness. 

On the third morning, Helen slipped a revolver into her reticule, and kept Imogen between herself and a wall at all times in case they needed to take cover. It was actually a relief to see Nikola's smug moustachioed face appear from behind yesterday's _Le Figaro_ at breakfast. 

He folded the paper and handed it to a steward, took a cup of coffee from the buffet then sauntered towards the table where she and Imogen were eating. There, he sat next to Helen, crossed his legs and spread his arms across the carved wooden back of the chair as if he had been invited. Imogen paused with a spoonful of soft-boiled egg halfway to her mouth, eyebrows raised into her hairline. Helen glared at him, accusing and silent. 

"Don't shoot the messenger," he said, and spooned sugar into his cup. "I was told to see you safely to Melbourne. I was, in fact, paid a spectacular amount, one that will see me into the New Year for supplies. You can't expect me to turn down an offer like that. Put that spoon in your mouth, dear child, or it'll drip on your chin. And trust me, egg on your face is nothing you want to invite." 

"I'll kill him," said Helen. She cut her toast in half with a savage slice. "I'll have this ship turned around and I'll drive it into the Thames, and I'll kill him." 

"Pff," Nikola scoffed. "Don't frighten the baby with your barbaric threats. She thinks you mean it." 

In outrage, Imogen forgot her shock and pointed her spoon at him. "Excuse me, sir! I am not a baby." She caught the tiny shake of Helen's head, and frowning, planted her spoon with extreme vigour into her egg. 

Nikola nodded approvingly. "Put a hole right through the shell, that's what my grandmother used to say. Now we're safe from the witches." 

"Nikola, I want you to disembark when we pull in at Lisbon today. Aren't you supposed to be in Buffalo now? You have a lecture to give." 

"How did you know about that? I've only just been invited, and anyway, it's not until September. I've got plenty of time." He pulled her plate towards him. "Are you going to eat that? I hate to see good toast go to waste." 

Imogen's eyes were wide, and Helen saw her press her lips together. Polite young ladies were seen and not heard, even if they had a million questions. 

"Lisbon." Helen said, firmly, and pulled her plate back from his hands. 

"Absolutely not. I cannot drink Madeira." Nikola winked at Imogen, and sipped his coffee. 

In the end, they negotiated: Nikola would travel with them to Cape Town, then catch a steamer to New York to conduct his lectures. Then, at an appropriate time, he'd clear James' cheque, and tell him all was well in Melbourne. In the meantime, Helen put him to work on Imogen's education, covering physics and the basics of engineering. 

Poor Imogen complained bitterly for the first couple of lessons. "He's a terrible teacher, Aunt Helen! He doesn't explain things at all, he just jumps around all over the place." 

Nikola was just as bad. "She actually picked up the book and threw it at me! Little savage! I refuse to be in the same room with her – I demand a chaperone." 

Eventually, though, they settled into an amiable, if explosive dynamic. With Nikola covering the sciences, Helen focused on languages, philosophy and ethics. 

"I know what you're up to with that girl," Nikola said one night, halfway to the Horn. Imogen was in bed at this late hour, but Helen, despite herself, relished having Nikola to talk with late into the night. They sat at a table for two in the smoking room, with a deck of cards between them to put off casual chit-chat from other passengers. The two of them had unique conversation topics that didn't bear sharing with strangers. 

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Helen sipped her liqueur, and watched him idly shuffle the deck. The air was balmy, and she wore as little as she could get away with, covering her shoulders with a filmy shawl as a concession to decency. Only twenty years to the Flappers, she reminded herself. Not long until hemlines soar and she could shingle her hair again. 

"You are carefully indoctrinating this girl with values. You're filling her head with ethics and respect for all mankind and a generally sickening level of philanthropy." 

Helen snatched the cards from him and cut them capably, despite the shocked looks from the gentleman at the next table. "These are all good values for a young, well-educated woman." 

"Yes, but you're so intense about it, Helen." Nikola leaned forward. "It's like you're eradicating some flaw in her character." 

"You know who her father is, and you know what he's capable of." Helen slapped cards down on the table. "There are certain factors in psychosis that may be inherited. Some are environmental, of course, but that has relevance too: she's suffered serious trauma in her life. I want Imogen to have the best chance for a happy, worthwhile life." Worthwhile. Imogen Worth. Helen had had too much to drink. These things she was talking about would sound like madness to a scientist of this era. People still believed in trauma imprinting on the baby in the womb, or that eating strawberries caused birthmarks. 

Fortunately for her, Nikola had little interest in developmental psychology. He waved his hand over the table. "So, what are we playing, then?" He leaned back in his chair to leer at her. "And more importantly, what are the stakes?" 

Helen looked at the cards; she'd dealt gin rummy, twenty years too soon. "Oh, Nikola, I don't know." She swept the table clear and set up _Vingt-et-un_. She could always thrash Nikola at Blackjack. 

When the game no longer fascinated, Helen refused Nikola's offer to walk her to her suite. She knew what would follow at the door, and there wasn't enough liqueur in the world for that to be a thing she wanted on her conscience. Inside, she checked Imogen's bedroom, and found her curled up under a light sheet, apparently asleep. The sharp smell of a recently snuffed candle told her otherwise. 

"You don't have to pretend to sleep, Imogen. If you want to read, that's absolutely fine." She reached out to touch Imogen's back, and felt her shudder away a sob. "Darling – Imogen – are you all right? Are you ill?" 

There was nothing more damning than sympathy: more sobs came, muffled by the enormous down pillow, and Helen's heart clenched. She sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Imogen's back, while the girl gave up all pretence and cried great whooping sobs. "Oh, darling, whatever it is, you can tell me." 

Eventually, when Helen had heard the ship's bells chime three times, the sobs slowed to a hiccupping, and Imogen curled over to rest her head on Helen's leg. 

"Can you tell me, dear? Perhaps there's something I can do to make it better." 

Imogen shook her head. "You're very kind," she gasped, between shuddering breaths. "I'm sorry to be trouble." 

"Rubbish," said Helen. She stroked Imogen's hair, lifting it up away from her hot neck. "You're no trouble at all. I think you're a very brave, very clever young lady, and it's a pleasure to be able to care for you." 

"I miss my dad," Imogen blurted, with a fresh spasm of sobbing. "I miss him very much, no matter how I try not to. I'm so sorry." 

Helen reached across to light the lamp; Imogen's face was blotchy red and sweaty, and her eyes terribly swollen. She must have been crying the entire time Helen was absent. "Oh, Imogen, darling, why are you sorry for something that is perfectly natural?" 

"I know that you don't think highly of him," Imogen said quietly, and she flushed even redder. "I don't mind – I really don't! – I can't tell you how grateful I am that you've taken me in and helped me so much. But I can tell that you disapprove of him, and so I don't like to bother you." 

Helen took her hand and pulled her close enough for a hug. "I am so terribly sorry, Imogen. I've been very unfair. You're quite right; I was not a friend of your father. He and I – I'm afraid we didn't have a good start at Oxford, and after that we never really patched things up again. But he was your father, and he was utterly dedicated to your well-being. For all our differences, I admired that quality in him."

"He was my dad," said Imogen, leaning against her. "I wish he were here." 

Helen nodded, and gave Imogen a squeeze. "What do you think he'd want you to do with your life? Did he want you to be a scientist, too, do you think?" 

"I don't know," said Imogen, with sudden surprise. "I mean, we never talked about it much. Perhaps he thought it cruel to talk of the future? If I had asked him what he wanted for me, I know he would have said 'Everything, of course!' He was like that, sometimes." 

"We will have to think about it more, then." Helen stood up, and poured some water in to the basin. "Here, wash your face, and I'll fix your bed." 

She straightened the sheets while Imogen washed her face and brushed her hair. 

"In the morning, we can talk about what your father might have liked you to study, if he had been given the opportunity to make those decisions," said Helen. "What we don't know, we can imagine and extrapolate." 

Imogen's eyes were half-closed already; grief was an exhausting process. Helen dimmed the lamp and walked to the door. In the doorway she paused. "Imogen, whenever you want to talk about your father, you have only to say. I would very much like to share your memories, if you would be willing." 

Imogen made a small noise. Whether it was an agreement or a sigh as she fell asleep, Helen couldn't say, but her conscience felt a little lighter. 

\---

By the time the Shalimar pulled in at Cape Town, Imogen was well enough to run down the gangway in a most unladylike manner, holding onto her hat so that it did not fly away. Helen and Nikola followed at a more sedate pace. Nikola was transferring immediately to a ship headed for the Americas. 

"You've thoroughly converted her to the Helen Magnus school of hooliganism and anarchy," Nikola said, as he handed her down from the gangway and onto the dock. "Tell me truthfully, now: in this other universe, she's a megalomaniacal despot, isn't she? That's why you're here. To divert her future actions." 

"Are you still holding onto that ridiculous story?" Helen watched Imogen climb the stairs with great vigour, then stand at the top to wave back at them. "Nikola, you do understand that you mustn't mention any of this to her, back in England?" They both knew who she was talking about.

Imogen rolled her eyes at their slow ascent, and tore off into the crowd. Helen hurried her pace to catch up with her again. At the top of the stairs, she could watch Imogen flit about the hawkers' stalls gathered at the edge of the docks. 

Nikola waved his hands, that same airy gesture he used to indicate that he didn't care and he wouldn't bother with any of it. "I don't know how you came to be here, and I'm still not entirely sure I haven't dreamed this whole thing up. I might yet wake up on William James' porch with a nosebleed and a hell of a hangover." He patted his pocket. "Which will make this cheque damned difficult to cash. Still! I would be a fool if I didn't do this before you vanish into the ether." He stepped up and pressed his lips to hers. 

Helen blinked, then stood still until he was done, with one eye on the docks in case Imogen looked in their direction. 

Nikola abruptly pulled away. "Oh, please, either slap my face or declare undying love, but for the sake of my reputation, Helen, don't simply endure." 

Helen tilted her parasol so that it shielded them from view for a moment. "Nikola, I'm going to tell you something important, so listen carefully. You're going to meet Adam Worth again, and when you do, it is absolutely vital that you say nothing about me or Imogen. Do you understand?"

"So, this has nothing to do with me kissing you?" said Nikola. 

Helen reached out her fingers with a snap and pulled him close by the curve of his ear. "Listen to me, Nikola." 

"I'm listening!" he gasped, standing on tip-toe to take pressure off his own flesh. "I'm listening, I'm listening!" 

"When you meet Adam again, he will talk about his daughter's death. He must believe that she is dead. If he has any idea that Imogen has survived, the world that you know will shatter. Do you understand me? Do you understand how important this is?" 

Nikola made a tiny movement meant for a nod, and she released him. 

"You talk about the future as if you know what will happen." He dusted himself off, righted her parasol and stepped away. "This is something tedious like time-travel, isn't it? All that rubbish Wells wrote about. I do the wrong thing, and the future diverts itself and somehow we end up as Sunday dinner on some chimpanzee's table. My theory was so much more elegant." He took out his pocket watch and checked it, fussily. "I'd rather we spent our last moments together locked in a passionate embrace." 

Helen relented, and threw her arms around him. "Goodbye, Nikola. I shan't see you again for a long time. Be good." 

"Nonsense. Clever is much more fun than good, and you know it. Say good bye to the little hooligan." Farewells complete, he turned and vanished into the stream of foot traffic flooding along the docks. 

Helen watched his hat bobbing along towards the ticket office, until Imogen tugged at her elbow. 

"Aunt Helen, may I have sixpence? I would very much like to buy a monkey." 

Helen took her arm. "Well, darling, I'm afraid a monkey is a terrible kind of pet, especially since I have neither the time nor the equipment to independently develop a treatment for rabies. However, I could see my way towards a parrot."


	3. Chapter 3

They would not be reboarding the Shalimar, not when Helen was certain that James would have someone reporting her arrival in Melbourne. His agent would be someone completely trustworthy, of course, but Helen could see that a clean break was very necessary. The more people that knew about her, even under her new alias, the greater the risk of discovery by Adam. Once Nikola's ship had pulled out, Helen booked them both passage on board the Cephalonia, bound for Van Diemen's Land. It was a safer journey, she told Imogen: they would avoid Bass Strait which wove between the small island and the mainland of Australia and was riddled with ship wrecks. 

Once Africa was behind them, the trip was smooth but tediously uneventful. Helen missed Nikola more than she had been prepared to acknowledge. Imogen, full of energy and with little on which to expend it, swiftly became fractious. She would disappear for hours with her tiny green parrot on her shoulder, exploring this newer, smaller ship. 

A smaller ship meant a closer circulation of passengers. Helen summed up the group of narrow-eyed, gossipy faces, and slipped a wedding ring onto her finger. Best to be introduced as Mrs James Watson, a widow. They may or may not believe a story of loss and relocation with her young ward but even if they suspected scandal, it was a very mundane kind of scandal, another kind of camouflage. 

It had somehow become the general assumption that she was not Imogen's mother, since a self-appointed committee of wives quickly took her under their wing to teach her the finer points of motherhood. 

"It's very generous of you to take her in," said Mrs Pearson. Her twin boys were seven years old and cared for by a harrowed-looking Irish nanny of about fifteen. "And I must say, she's adapting very well to civilised life, poor dear motherless child." 

"Indeed," said Helen. Imogen had made tentative friendships with two girls her age: Anne Waddle, short with dark ringlets and a gullible expression; and Matilda Abernathy, with yellow hair that stuck out from her hat like straw. Now, the three of them sat together on a deckchair. Imogen was speaking in an animated way, gesturing furiously with her hands. Her parrot, Clarence, sat on her hat and occasionally flapped his wings for balance. 

"It's a wonder, really," said Mrs Abernathy. "That you were able to teach her to speak. And to use cutlery."

Helen closed her book carefully, and stood up. "If you'll excuse me, ladies. I must get Imogen out of the sun." 

"Oh, but I thought she'd be used to that, growing up on the Serengeti," said Mrs Waddle. 

Helen smiled vaguely, and walked over to Imogen's seat. 

"And after supper, we would go hunting for tigers, " said Imogen. "It was quite the thing to do, honestly." 

"But, tigers are an Indian animal aren't they?" Anne Waddle wrinkled her brow. "Or is that elephants? Oh, now I'm confused. Are there tigers in Africa, Imogen?" 

"Oh, hundreds," said Imogen, loftily. "If we didn't hunt them, the place would be overrun." 

Helen cleared her throat, and Imogen jumped. The parrot shrieked and flew off her hat, circling around the small group. 

"I think that's enough sun for you, dear." Helen's voice was saccharine. "Let's take a nap before lunch." 

"Yes, Aunt Helen." Imogen's face was bland, though Helen could see how much she wanted to make a face at her new friends. Clarence drifted down onto her shoulder, and preened her hair. 

In their quarters – a shared cabin, much smaller than on the Shalimar – Helen let go of her grip on Imogen's arm. "What have you been telling people, you silly girl?" 

Imogen scowled and rubbed her arm. "It's nothing! They're just so stupid, those girls. So I told them I was raised by hyenas. In Africa." She quailed under Helen's gaze finally. "It's just they pulled my hair and told me I was common. It's not true!" 

Helen pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's not true, you're quite right. But Imogen, this story is quite ridiculous." 

Imogen's shoulders sagged. "I know. I didn't expect them to believe me, actually. But they did! And then, I just couldn't stop. I had to know how much they'd believe. I just kept saying more and more ridiculous things. And they just kept believing me." 

"Well, dear, lies are like that. The net you're spinning will catch you just as much as the people you're lying to, I'm afraid." Helen sat down next to her on the bed. "I can understand why you'd want them to be impressed by your stories, I really do. But it's very important that we keep a low profile, and this is not the way to go about it." 

Imogen stroked the beak of her parrot, and he nibbled affectionately at her fingertip. "Why? Why is it important we keep a low profile? Why did we need to change our names?" 

"It's difficult to explain," Helen began. 

"I swear I will keep telling outrageous stories," said Imogen. "If you don't tell me the truth, I'll tell Anne that you were married to a Bedouin prince with six other wives." 

"Darling, how many continents is this grand story going to encompass? When you can tell me where the Bedouin may be found, as well as the distribution of genus _panthera_ , I'll take that as a serious threat." Helen looked at Imogen's face: all defiance and a peeling nose. It had been less than three months since Imogen had been lying on the mortician's slab in London, thin-limbed and frail. It was most unexpectedly joyous to see her now, alive and well, and taking paths that Helen could never predict. 

"It's not like those girls can tell the difference between Africa and India and Arabia," Imogen said, sulkily. "It doesn't matter." 

Helen hugged her, and Clarence launched himself into the air in outrage. "Accuracy always matters," she said. "There's something lovely about knowing how things work, and that's what makes all the hard work worthwhile." She was going to have to tell the other passengers that Imogen was a very imaginative girl, which brought its own kind of social disapproval, but nothing that Helen had not already dealt with in life. 

Imogen pressed her face into Helen's shoulder. "You're not going to tell me, are you?" 

"Not today," said Helen, and patted her back. "Six wives, indeed.

\---

In Hobart, they took rooms at a hotel of moderate decency - not too extravagant, but perfectly reasonable for a widow and her ward to stay alone. Hobart had that particular style of architecture that desperately wanted to be European: all big, square Georgian corners and flagstones, and the Brunswick was no exception. Still, Imogen was thrilled with the excess of room after the cramped quarters on board the Cephalonia, and twirled gleefully in the centre of the sitting room. Clarence watched, disapproving, from far above on the chandelier. 

While Imogen explored their rooms, Helen filled out a card for the employment agency Mrs Waddle had given her. Once Helen's name was listed, she would let gossip and small-town moralities put her in touch with the kind of employer who would not be troubled by a slightly dented reputation for their governess. In her experience, these were generally the more interesting people anyway.

Samuel Burgess was just the kind of person she could work with: old and rich enough to ignore the people who turned their noses up at his convict parents, pig-headed enough to speak his mind, and eccentric enough to want to educate his daughters in more than just needlework and French. 

Their initial meeting at Watkins' Tuition Agency was a chance to size each other up. Helen was brought into a very genteel office, the kind with lace and ornaments on every flat surface.

"She's too pretty," said Mr Burgess, loudly, to Mrs Watkins, the esteemed agency owner. "I don't like 'em pretty, they don't stay long enough to teach a flea to jump. Find me one with warts." 

"If Mr Burgess would care to read my qualifications, he might find that as a zoologist, I would never bother teaching a flea to jump. I very much prefer to classify it, painlessly etherise it, then pin it to a board for posterity." Helen addressed Mrs Watkins primly, as if they were the only two people in the room. 

Mr Burgess laughed, a great guffawing bellow of sound that made Mrs Watkins flinch. "She's got fire, I'll give her that." 

"She speaks several languages," said Helen, gazing out of the window, as if she had better things to do today. "She is a firm adherent of Darwin's theories." 

"Darwin, eh? I've heard he's godless." The way Burgess said it, he didn't think that was necessarily a bad thing. 

"I feel it's only fair to admit that I am, in fact, an atheist," said Helen. 

Mrs Watkins gave a little sigh, and slipped from her seat to the carpet in a faint. 

Helen was by her side in a moment. "Push that footstool over here, and for heaven's sake, open a window, it's stifling in here." 

Mr Burgess did as he was ordered, and said nothing while Helen loosened Mrs Watkins' stays and propped her ankles on the low stool. She kept her fingers on the woman's pulse; it slowed and became more even, as blood drained from her feet. 

"What's wrong with her, then?" Mr Burgess loomed from above.

"Vaso-vagal syncope," Helen said, shortly. "That's what we get for playing stupid games with each other, when we should be hashing out salary details over a pint." 

Mr Burgess' expression was full of admiration. "Bloody hell, woman, I've don't know whether to hire you or marry you." 

Helen patted Mrs Watkin's cheek, and the poor woman began to stir. "I think one wife is quite enough for you, Mr Burgess. You'll have to settle for employing me. Now, leave the study now if you don't mind. If Mrs Watkins wakes to find her stays undone with a man in the room, she'll probably go into cardiac arrest." 

Mr Burgess opened the door with a flourish, and strode into the waiting room. Helen heard him on the other side of the wall, declaiming to the women seated there. "Found a governess, all right! Damn near killed poor Mrs Watkins. Can't wait to see what she'll do with my daughters." 

\---

Wayatinah Estate was a sprawling dairy farm, two thousand hectares of rolling green hills in the Midlands region. Once they were off the train, Helen braced herself for a jolting ride in a wagon or perhaps a carriage, but Mr Burgess was wealthy and ostentatious enough to have shipped himself an automobile all the way from Germany.

"It looks like England!" Imogen exclaimed in delight from the window of the car, as they drove over a stone bridge. "So green - look, willow trees!" She juggled Clarence's wicker cage on her lap to lean over and press her nose to the glass. 

"Bear in mind that introduced species often thrive in their new environments at the cost of those native to the area," said Helen. "Willows, for example, are very thirsty trees. Native trees are much more thrifty with the resources around them, but they'll be quickly displaced by their European cousins." 

"Not just the trees, I'm afraid," said Mr Burgess, from the front seat. 

Helen turned to face him. "The people indigenous to this area, you mean?" 

"Gone, mostly. There was a matter with some poisoned flour twenty years ago, thanks to Warrington - he's the other land owner round about here. That, and a round of TB pretty much finished them off; those that survived just packed up and left one day. Not something I'm particularly proud of, to be honest. Still, it's a different kind of land here now - we're shaping it to suit our purposes, and there wasn't really room for them. Perhaps it's for the best." 

Imogen must have seen more in Helen's expression than Mr Burgess did, because she slipped her hand inside Helen's and gave it a squeeze. Helen leaned her head against Imogen's. It had been a long journey. 

There was a lovely cottage for her and Imogen, though, with a slate roof that sloped low over the beds. Mrs Burgess met them at the door; she was surprisingly tiny for someone who had produced five daughters. 

"Welcome to Wayatinah. Now, I won't keep you: there's soup on the hob, and I've turned down the beds. I'll leave you to recover - I'm always so jolted after riding in that infernal thing." 

"You liked it well enough to go motoring up the mountain with me last spring!" Mr Burgess bellowed from the driver's side window. "Now, get in here and I'll take you home to cook my dinner!" 

Mrs Burgess shook her head. "He's a horror, that one. Now, we'll be putting breakfast on the table at seven, if you'd like to meet the girls. We're in the big white house - you'll be able to see the lights in an hour or so. We haven't got the telephone on, but it's only a few minutes up the hill. " She shook Helen's hand briskly and patted Imogen on the cheek, then slipped into the car beside her husband. 

Helen stood in the open doorway and watched the car trundle up the low hill. Twilight was gathering, and with it came a heavy chill in the air. As if all at once, the distance she had travelled seemed to settle on her shoulders like a cloak, and she was desperately homesick for familiar faces and her own home. It's going to be like this, she told herself, sternly. You'd better get used to it, because there's a century and more of it to come. 

Behind her, Imogen shifted from foot to foot nervously for a moment, then fetched a cloth to lift the pot from the cooker. "Come along," she said, and her voice was brisk. "The soup will get cold if we don't eat it now." 

\--- 

There were five Burgess daughters, stepping down in height like a staircase from fifteen to seven, and they waited for their new governess like orcas wait for a seal cub. 

"Have you ever taught as a governess before?" Imogen's question was conversational, but there was real enquiry there. 

Outside the schoolroom door, Helen raised her eyebrows. "Do you think that I'm not up to the task?" I've managed an international organisation for a hundred years plus change, she thought to herself. I can do this. 

"No, it's not that, exactly," said Imogen, as she straightened the ribbon in her own hair, and pulled her frock into tidiness. "I think you can manage anything, probably. It's just that you do tend to use a gun in difficult circumstances and I don't know if the Burgesses will like that." 

"Well, firstly, I shall have an excellent assistant to help me keep order," said Helen. "And where modern educational methods fail, I will have corporal punishment to fall back on." 

"Good," said Imogen, without irony. "That will do nicely, I think." She pushed open the door and held it for Helen to cross the threshold. 

Helen had done many things in her life - she'd had so much life in which to do those things - but living on a working farm long enough to learn the rhythm of the seasons was not on that list. She quickly fell into a routine, once territorial boundaries had been established for the tribe of Burgess daughters. Every day was bookended by milking, not that Helen or Imogen had much to do with that process, but it was a clear punctuation in the passing of the day. In the morning, a line of cattle ambled past their cottage towards the dairy, churning up mud and leaving behind cowpats, much to Imogen's fascination and disgust. In the evenings, there was a sudden absence of extra hands, as cows were brought in again. Imogen soon became accustomed to shaking her apron at stray calves, or at running for a gate closed at a critical moment. Helen, carefully poised to walk the ill-defined line of social acceptance for a governess, found that she and Imogen were both welcomed to the family, and as often as not, ate at the Burgess' table. And it was a fine table indeed: no shortage of milk or meat on a dairy farm, and plenty of fresh vegetables. Imogen thrived, shooting up two inches in height in a year. 

The Burgess girls, she soon learned, were notorious horrors, known for their wild tempers and extravagant manners. They obviously expected a timid little mouse of a governess, but Helen found ways to turn their bloodthirsty interest in driving her mad to better things. Emily, the eldest, was as sharp as cut tin and took to Latin with a furious interest; she and Imogen were soon in competition with each other. The twins, Florence and Bessie, pretended daintiness, but botany and botanical drawings led quickly onto zoology and dissection. Violet and Alexandra always wanted to copy the big girls - as the four oldest, including Imogen, were collectively known - and they tried hard with spelling and science so that they could follow. 

When she had been at Wayatinah for a year, Helen felt secure enough to write to Nikola and ask him to pass a letter on to James. She didn't dare contact James directly; that would have to wait until her younger self had set up the new Sanctuary in Old City, and there was no chance that she would see an envelope with her own handwriting on it. It was a calculated risk. There were still ways that Adam or John or even Helen of the past could discover the communication, but Helen of the future was going to go mad without a supply of books. It took another six months, but the parcels started to trickle in, addressed to Mrs James Watson. James threw himself with relish into the task of keeping Helen's sanity. 

The winters in the Midlands were milder than England, but cold enough that there was mud and cold-weather illness to deal with. Helen never declared herself a medical practitioner, as such, but she was around the family often enough that she was there to deal with the small emergencies that crop up in a farming household, and there seemed little harm in dealing with small burns or chilblains or a runny nose. Soon, though, the farm workers knew to come running when someone caught their foot in the baler, or crushed into a fence by a cow. Helen crossed her fingers, dealt with the injury and moved on. Nothing was ever so severe that they couldn't have survived it without her aid. It all seemed reasonable at the time. 

Their second Christmas at Wayatinah sweltered. It was a strange enough for Helen to participate in the making of plum pudding and hanging of paper chains. Stranger still was to do all of that amidst shimmering heat in her lightest dress, while the children swam in the river and ran about in their underclothes. 

The night of the nativity play at the stone village church, thunderclouds hung low over the trees and humidity made the air thick and hard to breathe. Helen would not be attending, but she helped to settle the gilt-covered haloes on Violet and Alexandra's heads, and saw the household off in the two flat wagons. 

"Whatever is the matter with Emily?" she asked Imogen, as the wagon bearing the Burgess girls trundled away. "Her face could turn milk." 

Imogen rolled her eyes. "Oh, she's in a terrible snit because Mr Burgess won't take the automobile. She says they'll all get rained on before they get to church and people can see her hat. She's just become so vain lately. It's just a hat, after all." She cast a glance back in Helen's direction then turned to watch the wagons winding towards the town road. "I know, it's a difficult time. I just miss being her friend." 

Helen rubbed Imogen's shoulder in sympathy; personally, she wouldn't be a teenager again for all the money in the world, not even for a shortcut back to the twenty first century. "Come on, inside before the rain comes down." She closed the door as the first curl of thunder rippled over the hills. 

Imogen caught the edge of the door in her hand and pushed it open again. "Was that the starter motor?" 

Helen opened her mouth to say that it must have been the thunder, but, no, the head-lamps of the Daimler swept past the house and down the hill towards the wagons. Helen had a brief glimpse of Emily's face, grimly determined as she steered the car towards the gate. 

"Hell," said Helen, and hoisted up her skirts. "She'll never make that first bend if she doesn't slow down." 

Imogen was faster, though. Flying on long, strong legs, she cut across grass baked hard in the summer sun, and made it to the deceptively sharp curve in the road just as the car came over the low rise, juddering on iron wheels. There she stood, waving her arms at Emily, signalling her to stop. 

Helen was near enough to see the panic in Emily's face as she fumbled for the braking lever. The wheels jounced over the dusty, hard-packed road, but the engine didn't slow. By now, the wagons had halted, seeing the approach of the car, and were slowly, slowly making turns to come back to the house. Helen could hear, faintly, above the puttering engine, Mr Burgess' bellowing: at Emily, at the drivers, at anyone. 

The Daimler cornered gamely, and almost, almost made the turn. Then a wheel struck a rock at exactly the wrong time, and the car flipped lazily up onto two wheels. It rolled like a toy, bouncing first on its roof, back on its wheels briefly, then sliding on one side into the trunk of an enormous gum tree. 

Helen didn't think about repercussions, not until they had Emily back in the house. The realisation didn't come until she was holding Emily's arm onto her body with a leather belt and a handful of blood and splintered bone. The arm was not salvageable, not in any way - it was barely attached, and the break couldn't be worse. There was no time to send for a doctor - though Mr Burgess had done so - a farmhand on the fastest horse would be hours yet. Mrs Burgess, level headed in the midst of a crisis, was already looking to Helen for instructions. Helen would have to amputate to give Emily the best chance of survival. And If Emily lived, it would be because of Helen. She had done it again. 

She looked at Imogen across the dining room table, ignoring Emily's screams and the hopeless wailing of the maids. Imogen's face was white, but she held tight to Violet and Alexandra, still dressed as tiny angels as they sobbed into her apron. 

The choice was already made. No, there was no choice at all. She existed in this timeline, and she couldn't do that without moving through time and causing ripples. Time hadn't ruptured yet. Perhaps it was more resilient than anyone understood. 

"Send the girls to boil some water," said Helen. "Then go and find all of the rum in the house. Mr Burgess keeps a bottle in his desk drawer, there's probably some in the kitchen, too. Mrs Burgess - Jenny - listen to me: go and find the laudanum we used for Bessie's cough last year." When Mrs Burgess was out of earshot, Helen turned to May, the housekeeper. "Send someone to the dairy for the butchering tools. I'll need the saw and the best carving knife." 

Mr Burgess, and the three biggest farmhands stood awkwardly in the doorway to the dining room. Helen briefed them while she scrubbed her hands; for the first time glad of Mrs Burgess' insistence on phenolic soap. 

Before they started, Mr Burgess caught her arm. "Whatever happens, do what you must without fear of blame. I don't want you hesitating when it's my daughter's life. Take every chance." His face was as sombre as she'd ever seen it, grey and calm, the acceptance that came from seeing this kind of injury in others. 

Imogen didn't throw up until afterwards; Helen was inordinately proud. "Keep your hair out of the way, darling," she said as she washed her hands in a basin of clean water. 

"I think you're wonderful," said Imogen, wiping her mouth. "But I never, ever want to be a doctor." 

"It's not for everyone, there's no shame in that." Helen looked at the debris in the room, and the blood-soaked towel covering the severed limb. Emily had been unconscious for the worst of it, thankfully, and was in her own room upstairs. Now, the long wait began, and the race between shock, blood loss and infection. 

Movement caught her eye and, still humming with adrenaline, she wheeled on the open doorway. It was May, the housekeeper, hovering. Behind her stood Katie the scullery maid with a mop and bucket in hand. 

"If you please, Mrs Watson," said May, with a respectful voice. "We can take care of the room now. You ought to get some rest."

May's words buzzed in her head oddly. Helen found the room swaying around her. Imogen dived to catch her arm, and May caught the other. The two of them held her upright, and marched her to the stairs. 

"I need to stay close," said Helen. "Emily must be monitored for any signs of infection." Her ears were still ringing; despite the rum and laudanum it had not been an easy operation. It would probably be a good idea to keep ether in the house. Or perhaps chloroform would be safer. 

Imogen helped her up the stairs, coaxing another step out of her, and another. "Come on. The girls are all in the nursery with the little ones, you can take one of their rooms. It's near enough to Emily." 

Helen woke once in the night with a jolt, clenched with fear and indecision. "I don't know if I'm doing the right thing!" She didn't know whom she was addressing - the room should be empty. Somehow, though, she knew she was not alone. 

Someone with warm hands, big hands, stroked her hair back into place. "Sleep now, Helen." 

"This is a dream," she said to John, and he nodded in understanding. 

"Of course it is," he said, and kissed her brow. "Now, rest. You've done the right thing - you always know the right thing. No better moral compass in all of the world." 

Helen pressed his hand to her heart, and lay back on the bed. She didn't wake again until Mrs Burgess was gently shaking her shoulder to tell her Emily was awake. 

Emily made it through the first day and the second. Helen kept a close eye on the wound: the sutures were holding - thank heavens for Mrs Burgess and her love of silk embroidery - and though there was a little reddening at the site, the healing process seemed to be progressing. Everywhere she turned in Emily's room, though, she seemed to be tripping over Imogen. 

"Imogen!" Helen said, in exasperation, as she and Imogen shuffled around each other for the third time. "Have you been in here all day? Do go and get some fresh air." 

Imogen made a kind of choking noise, and turned for the door. Helen caught her by the elbow and pulled her close. Imogen's eyes were shadowed, and her hair a messy tangle. There were spots of blood on the sleeve of her dress, the dress she had been wearing on the day of the accident. 

"Oh, darling," said Helen, and wrapped her in a hug. 

Imogen pressed her face into Helen's shoulder. In a tiny voice, she said "I'm so frightened that if I go, she'll die." 

"Go," said Helen. "Have Katie run you a bath, and get some sleep. I'll stay with her until you come back. I promise, I'll won't leave her." 

The doctor came all the way from Bridgewater, finally, on the third day. He brought medication and scathingly faint praise for Helen's level-headed actions. He seemed to think of her as some kind of nurse, and that luck and home-grown common sense had somehow gotten Emily through surgery. Helen bit her tongue, took the praise and a bottle of laudanum for the patient. The last she saw of the doctor, he was shaking Mr Burgess' hand and accepting his grateful thanks.

A week later, Emily was sitting up in bed, ruling the house like a tyrant, and frightening her younger sisters with the stump that ended halfway down her humerus. There seemed to be, among the household staff, an idea that she ought to have learned some kind of moral lesson from the accident. Helen laughed at the idea. 

"She'd never have pulled through the surgery if she didn't have a cast-iron stubborn streak running through her." 

Imogen stayed by Emily's bed as much as possible, even when Emily was having the kind of day that involved throwing her breakfast dishes at the window. From the schoolroom across the hall, Helen could hear Imogen taking Emily to task, chastising her for sulking or needling her to get out of bed and move around despite the pain. It wasn't long before Emily was sitting in the schoolroom, too, clumsily dragging chalk across her slate with her left hand. She had, by now, a wooden prosthesis to wear, an uncomfortable thing with leather straps that lashed onto a harness across her shoulders, but she wore it staunchly, and stared down the curious gaze of visitors with ferocious blue eyes. In the schoolroom, Imogen often put Clarence on Emily's shoulder, and she would threaten Violet and Alexandra with pirate curses. Between Emily and Imogen, the two of them seemed to be muddling through the effects of trauma together. 

Summer melted into autumn, and Helen realised with a shock that she'd been at Wayatinah for two years. The family adjusted after Emily's accident, and Mr Burgess bought a new motor. Katie, the scullery maid became pregnant, and was swiftly married to one of the farmhands. Helen kept telling herself that soon they'd move on, soon, definitely before the baby came along, but Imogen was so very happy here. She had a fat white pony and rode with the Burgess girls, including Emily, who was soon as fearless on horseback with one arm as with two, and indeed, was rarely seen out of jodhpurs. Imogen filled out her education as she helped Helen teach the Burgess daughters. When classes were finished, Mrs Burgess took on the role of teacher, for domestic skills like cooking and needlework. 

One Sunday morning, Helen lay in her bed in the tiny cottage at the bottom of the hill - as a declared atheist, there was no expectation that she would go to church - and realised that she was happy, too. For a day, almost, she convinced herself that perhaps they wouldn't have move at all. 

Then the reporter from Bridgewater came to interview her, about the accident, about her extraordinary courage in saving Emily's life, and Helen knew the game was up. She put the reporter off, downplaying her involvement in the affair, but now that she was aware of it, she saw little details everywhere that told her it was time to move. 

She was glad that Imogen had formed a strong friendship with Emily, because she had already noticed a change in the way Mr and Mrs Burgess were treating Helen. There was a certain reverence in the way they addressed Helen, and the way they spoke of her to their friends that made her very uncomfortable. 

Watching Imogen teaching the younger Burgess girls, she realised two years of health had made all the difference to Imogen; there was nothing childlike about her any longer. Mrs Burgess must have noticed it too, as she had quietly started cutting Imogen's frocks much longer. If Helen asked, the Burgesses would take Imogen in, she had no doubt of that. 

At the base of it all was the thing that she had forgotten, in the ease of having her own home and living among people who knew her. She did not age. It had been so long since cities were small enough and society petty enough to pay a great deal of attention to the tiniest of eccentricities. Wayatinah was a village; people noticed when you pinned your hair differently. Helen was already noteworthy by her actions and she would only bring more attention as time passed. She pushed down deep the guilt of abandoning Imogen, and started to make plans. 

She obviously hadn't completely understood the perils of living in a small community, though: Imogen found her out in a matter of days. 

It was a clear night, and Helen had taken the two oldest girls out with the telescope, to sketch the night sky and consider the development of astronomy as science. Helen kept a textbook handy, not because she needed to refer to the facts, but to keep her lesson current with Victorian levels of information. No quantum physics just yet. 

Imogen pressed her eye to the telescope. Emily had long ago fallen asleep on the blanket beside them, but Imogen was determined to locate and sketch the Keel. "You sent a telegram to New York."

Helen gaped at her. The expression on her face, such pleasure at puzzling out a mystery, was pure Adam Worth. 

"It was to a Nick Edison, which is quite clever, but I do remember how you teased Mr Tesla on the ship." She turned back to Helen, and flicked her hair over her shoulder. "Don't make up a lie about this. I can tell when you're lying, you know." 

Helen closed her astronomy book carefully while she thought. "There is some business I must attend to in the States, I'm afraid. I've asked Mr Burgess for some leave, though, and I'll be back before Christmas." 

"That's a lie," said Imogen, softly, with a quick glance to see they weren't disturbing Emily's sleep. "You promised me you wouldn't lie, you know. Back on the ship from England, you made it a family rule. Does this mean we're not family anymore?" Her voice was cool and steady, and the words carefully planned. "Tell me what's really going on," she demanded. "I can always ask Emily to send her own telegram, you know. The postmistress has the details on record, and the Burgesses have an account. Somehow I don't think Mr Tesla will have a problem telling me the truth." 

Helen took her arm, and shook it to catch her attention. "Listen to me. You've got a good home here, Imogen, but I can't stay. People already look at me strangely, and the more they talk, the more word spreads. There are people out in the world who must not know where I am." 

"I know who you are, though. I remember you fighting with my father, I remember the strange blue lights and all those words that made no sense." The words were quiet but hung in the air with potential that Helen could not define. 

Her voice was careful as she answered. "Is that a threat, Imogen? I'd rather it wasn't. I'd be very sad if we couldn't be friends." 

Imogen gave a wail, and flung herself on Helen's bosom. Beside them, Emily stirred, crying out in her sleep. Imogen's words were muffled against Helen's blouse. "No! I could never – I would never betray you! But I'm so very scared that I'm going to wake up and you'll be gone. Please, if there are things I need to know, then tell me. Don't just run away." She shook herself upright again, folding her dress over her knees, a young lady again. "Anyway, it doesn't make sense to leave and start over. You'll make friends wherever you go – you can't help yourself - and then you'll have this exact conversation again." 

Helen pulled her back into a hug and stroked her hair. "When did you get to be so wise? You're only a baby." 

Imogen snuffled a little. "Well, you're quite a good governess, as it turns out." 

"Why do you think that I need to move on?" 

"Well," Imogen sat up and chewed her lip for a moment. "You're not like other people. You know a lot of things, more than one person should be able to know, I think. Emily says that you have an old soul, and I know that's foolish supernatural thinking, but somehow, it feels right to me. You know a lot of things about a lot of people and you bite the words back when people talk about them. At dinner last month, Mr Burgess was saying that he thought the Queen would go on for another twenty years at least. You didn't say anything, but you had a look. I don't think she'll go on for twenty years." She fixed Helen with a steady gaze. "Do you know how long she'll go on?" 

Helen gave her a wry smile. "I wish I didn't know. It would be so much easier. I can't explain it in ways that make any sense, but I'm not supposed to be here, Imogen. I don't mean Wayatinah or even Australia. I mean that I'm not supposed to be in the world at all." 

"Yes, you are," said Imogen. She shook her head, disparagingly. "That's such an atheist thing to say, Aunt Helen. Whether or not you're supposed to, here you are. There has to be a reason for it." She grinned. "I'd like to pretend I'm a little girl again and say that I'm the reason."

Helen reached out to touch her cheek. "Darling, you are an excellent reason, and thank you for reminding me of it. " 

They sat together, quietly, and Helen watched Imogen's hands softly combing through Emily's golden hair spread out on the blanket. Something yipped in the darkness, and they both jumped. Helen had never heard anything like it, even after two years on the edge of dense forest. 

"Oh, look!" Imogen whispered, pointing. "A tiger!" 

Helen peered through the starlit night: indeed, it was a thylacine, picking a path along the edge of the scrubland that bordered the farm. For the first time, she completely understood the magnitude of her journey to this place. This was an extinct animal in her time, a relic. She'd seen film of the species, of course, and James had a sample preserved in formalin, but the fact that her eyes were on this living creature right now was an anachronism in itself. It was charming and terrible at the same time. 

"Emily says there's a bounty on their skulls; there's hardly one to be found anymore," whispered Imogen. "And Barker, the drover? He says they're not even that dangerous, they probably couldn't kill a lamb." 

"They can't," said Helen. "Their jaws are too weak to crush bones. Ridiculous, the things we know about this creature once they're gone forever." 

Imogen stared at the yellow striped creature with the hopping gait. "That's very sad. This one might be the last one. 

"Not for a little while yet." Helen felt a curl of an idea flick into life, a tiny flame of a thing. She was surrounded by anachronism: Emily, Imogen, and the Tasmanian tiger. It was a long way forward to the twentieth century. Why the hell shouldn't she change the world a little on her way back? It wasn't just Abnormals that needed protection from humanity, and there were always people like Imogen who fell through the cracks. 

In the morning, she gave her notice. The Burgesses weren't happy in the slightest. 

"I've a good mind to lock you in the dairy until you stop this nonsense," said Mr Burgess. "I'll never find another governess like you." 

Mrs Burgess had tears in her eyes. "But must you go? I quite think of you as part of the family, and we love Imogen like a daughter." 

Gently but firmly, Helen extricated herself from Wayatinah. No, Mr Burgess needn't drive them to the station; they'd ride with the dairy wagon in the morning. No, the children would be fine for a few weeks without a teacher; she had them well and truly ahead for their ages. No, thank you, a salary increase would not convince her to stay.

When the farm was nothing more than a fading smudge on the horizon, she finally breathed a sigh of relief. 

"So, we'll travel to Launceston, and we'll plan an expedition?" Imogen sat cross-legged in the wagon beside her, with Clarence in the wicker cage on her lap. 

"A hunting expedition, yes. We can hire some trappers easily enough, and trek down the Derwent. We'll trap as many Thylacine as we can catch, and ship them to Watson in London. He can find us the land, and we can instruct him in building the right habitat. It will take a while to build up a breeding population, but with enough space and care, it should be possible."

"Like a zoo!" Imogen exclaimed in delight. 

"Like a Sanctuary," said Helen. She leaned her head against the wood of the wagon and watched the trees pass overhead. Finally, a purpose that felt right. She felt more like herself than she had since she arrived in the past. 

There was a young man waiting for them on the platform at Launceston: slim, tall, and wearing an out of date hat. It took Helen a few moments to recognise Emily with her hair cut short. She wore a suit that her father couldn't have worn for two or three decades, with the right sleeve pinned up. She sat on her trunk, one leg crossed over her thigh as if she had been born wearing trousers. When she caught sight of Helen and Imogen, she stood up, swept off her hat and bowed. "Ladies! How wonderful to meet you here." 

Helen looked at Emily, then back at Imogen's smug little smile. They'd set this up themselves, the little minxes. _Fait accompli_. 

"What did you tell your father?" she demanded. "It had better be a bloody good story, because I don't want him after me with a shotgun." 

Emily stuck out her chin. "I told him that nobody will want to marry a girl with one arm, so he'd better let me find my own way in the world. He didn't like that idea very much, so then I told him I'd talk to him about it tomorrow, and snuck out the window last night." She leaned against Imogen's body. "I don't actually want to get married, you understand, but I had to phrase it in terms he'd understand. I heard we're going on a trek – do you think you might teach me to shoot a pistol, Mrs Watson? I used to be handy with a rifle, but that's just not going to work." 

"It's Doctor Magnus, actually," said Imogen. "And if anyone can teach you how to shoot, it's her. She likes to shoot things." 

"Imogen, really, in the years that you've known me, have you ever seen me actually shoot anything?" Helen was blustering. There wasn't much, realistically, that Helen could do now. Even in the colonies, even so far from the cities, there was only so much disgrace that could be borne. Emily had thoroughly burned her bridges.

"No," said Imogen. "But there's a certain competence in the way you hold a gun." 

There was little time to argue the matter; the train was pulling in. Helen gritted her teeth and signalled for a porter to heft their trunks. 

\---

Now that she was no longer posing as a supposed widow with a whiff of scandal, Helen booked them rooms at the best hotel in Launceston: one room for Emily, who looked and acted the part of a young man, and one for the two women of their party. Once their bags were brought up and they were alone again, there was a quick and furtive exchange of keys. 

Helen took them both by the shoulder. "Be discreet. Emily, if you want to travel as a man, remember that your actions reflect on Imogen's and my reputation, so behave yourself. Imogen, darling, I'm just next door." 

Imogen kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you, Aunt Helen." Then the two of them disappeared into their room. Soon there was the sound of running water and a lot of giggling.

Helen flopped back onto the bed, and spoke to Clarence who was sulking in his cage. "It's just you and me, Clarence. God help them, the silly fools." At the back of her mind, though, was relief: this was so much easier than dealing with boyfriends. She was fairly sure that a pregnancy would be much more than the timeline was able to manage. 

In the morning, there were eight telegrams for her: two from Nikola, and six increasingly angry communications from James. She blithely rattled off a list of requirements to James, and a message of thanks to Nikola for facilitating things. Then, after turfing Imogen and Emily out of bed, she bustled them down to breakfast. Emily was in for a short sharp education in gentlemanly manners before they set out on their expedition. 

"You're quite different than you were as a governess," Emily said one night around the campfire. They were all wearing trousers by this stage; even Imogen had given up after a week of untangling skirts from the scrub. The men of their party had established careful boundaries, and kept their own fire. Helen was pleased with her choices, they were all sensible and practically minded, and none so far had tried anything untoward. All of them thought she was mad but rich, and she did nothing to dissuade them of this idea. 

Helen sipped tea from her enamel mug. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm the same person, just more sensibly dressed. And better armed." 

"No, she's right," said Imogen. "You are more like you were on the Shalimar, with Mr Tesla. More independent, I suppose, less caring about what people said. Mrs Watson was very respectable." Imogen, the most sheltered of the three of them, had taken a little longer to adjust to sleeping rough, but now instead of squealing at the large spider crawling over her shoe, she simply kicked it off into the undergrowth. 

"I am perfectly respectable," said Helen, just to hear the girls laugh. Their hunt was going exceptionally well. They had eight specimens so far, two with joeys in the pouch. Helen kept them in a large pen on the edge of the forest while her custom shipping container was being built, and meanwhile they trekked back into the wilds. 

"What happens next?" Emily swirled her tea, grimaced at the dregs there and threw the remains into the bush behind her. "I mean, we've got our tigers. What's the next thing we do?" 

"I wish we could turn back the clock and get the dodo," said Imogen. "I feel sad for the dodo. And just think - people killed them because they were tasty, and we never got a chance to find out if they had a larger role in nature than that." She reached up to Clarence, sitting loyally on her straw hat, and he nipped her finger lovingly. 

"Well, there must be something else we're eating out of existence. Maybe we could find that before it gets gobbled up, too." Emily, ever the farm girl, had quite a bleak outlook on appetites. 

Helen pictured the timeline. The thylacine was so well known that the dates were very clear: she had until the mid-thirties to build up her breeding population. "We've missed the quagga – that's a subspecies of zebra, Emily – by a decade or so. That's a pity. I'd quite like to take you both on safari. But we could take a ship to Murat Bay, and have a go at collecting the pig-footed bandicoot. Bandicoots are much easier to keep than predators, and they breed four at a time. I wonder if we're in time to capture the Honshū wolf?" There was the Eastern cougar, the Galapagos mouse, the Caribbean monk seal. And there were the plant species, too: the Usambara Annone, the Cry Pansy, _Radula visiniaca_. 

Imogen's eyes gleamed above the firelight. "That's Japan? Oh, Japan would be wonderful, let's do that." 

Later, curled up on her camp bed, Helen listened to possums fighting. Somewhere in the Cairngorms, James was grudgingly setting aside land, which she would fill with all the things the world had let slip away. Was it a vanity? Or something inherent in her nature, this need to build Sanctuaries? This time it was different, she told herself. There could be no casual attrition of secrecy, no dreams of integrating these secret refugees back into the world. She sat up suddenly, springs squeaking, and thrust her feet into her boots. A tiny kernel of an idea, something she hadn't even known was there, had suddenly crystalised. She paced around the fire, nursing the idea into a workable shape. A new Sanctuary. She had the time, and the foreknowledge to undertake such a massive project. 

On the other side of the campfire, Imogen poked her head out of the tent she shared with Emily. 

"Did something happen?" 

"Yes and no," said Helen. "I've just had an idea about the future." 

Emily's head appeared beside Imogen's, blinking sleepily through the hair in her eyes. "The very near future? Do we need to pack?"

"No, not just yet." Helen scuffed a coal back into the fire. "I need some time to work the details out."   
"Good," said Emily, and vanished backwards into the tent. Seconds later, Imogen shrieked and fell back too. 

Helen shook her head, smiling, and stepped away from the campsite. In the dark, frogs called noisily and mopoke owls sang mournfully into the night, and she could ignore the heaving, giggling mass in the girls' tent. She spread her oilskin coat over a damp fallen log, and perched on it to think.   
Perhaps Imogen was always meant to show her that the timeline was strong, and protection was what you made for yourself. Control over integration should stay in the hands of those most at risk. Once back in her own time, she could rebuild her Sanctuary, away from people. A Sanctuary within a Sanctuary. Underground, perhaps; completely separate, certainly. She smiled, broadly delighted with the fact that James, as always, had been right. She had needed rest to find renewal, and now she knew the work that was ahead of her. 

Eventually, when she had the foundations of the idea carefully structured, she came back to her tent. On the narrow camp bed she fell asleep, and dreamed of lost things and safe places, new Sanctuaries and old.


	4. Chapter 4

Two years after Watson's death, Declan was still finding hidden doors and secret caches inside the British Sanctuary. This time, the mystery was a moth-eaten green eclectus parrot, regarding him beadily from inside a battered wicker cage. 

The cage had been couriered down from Aberdeenshire, and the note attached was addressed to Watson in a spidery handwriting. Declan checked the bird for lice, gave it a handful of seed and some fresh water and sat down to read. 

_Dear James,_

_I regret the need to break radio silence, but I gave fair warning that I would not be the sole carer for Clarence, despite his venerable status. He has despised me since I was a little girl, and now, with the boys gone to university, there is nobody he cares for overmuch. He has always shown a fondness for you, however much you deny it. Hence, I place him in your care, as I have always threatened to do._

It was signed by a Bridget Wood. Declan rubbed his finger over the embossed letterhead, then reached for his laptop and skyped Henry. 

Henry peered into his webcam. "Dude, is that a parrot?"

Declan looked up at the bird on his shoulder. "Apparently it's a parrot called Clarence. Listen, have you ever come across a project called the Magnus Ark?" 

"Uh, no? Do you mean ark as in Ark of the Covenant? Or, like, Noah's Ark?" 

They looked at each other with resigned expressions, then Henry sighed. "Yeah, we work in the kind of place where that was a necessary question. Let me have a look." His fingers clattered on his keyboard, and Declan swatted gently at the parrot pushing its beak lovingly into his ear. 

"Okay," said Henry. "I've got a locked directory with that name. Looks like old code, something that missed the last few upgrades. I can probably hack it, if you want a look inside?" His voice trailed upwards at the end, still a little uncertain of the boundaries here. Declan was head of the UK Sanctuary, but he wasn't James Watson. 

"Don't get yourself in trouble, Henry." Declan had this particular dance down by now. "I'll try my access codes. If it's something Watson didn't want me dabbling in, I'll take it to Magnus." 

Henry gave him a quick salute and signed off. 

Now that he knew where to look, the directory was there. His access code opened it with no complaints, and he scrolled through carefully maintained accounting spreadsheets. Whatever the Magnus Ark was, Watson had the Sanctuary propping it up with funds from the general accounts. And there were some serious expenses, judging from the invoices. The contact database was full of scientific equipment suppliers, chemical companies, some very specialised live animal feed stores, and a huge shipping budget. 

His hand hovered over the phone; Doctor Magnus could probably clear this up with one conversation. Then he reached for his keys instead. It would be a decent ride up to Aberdeen. He'd stow this bloody parrot in the avian wing, and take the weekend off. 

He looked back over his shoulder at the empty desk, as he usually did when he left the office. "You'd want me to go and find out on my own, right?" 

He could almost see Watson roll his eyes, and he laughed to himself. "Yeah, any excuse to go really fast on winding roads." 

\---

He stayed overnight in Glasgow, which gave him most of the next day to wend his way into the Cairngorms and find Ballater, the town named on the electronic invoices. He missed it the first time when the GPS directed him to an empty gravel bypass on the main road. He backtracked, put some petrol in the bike and asked for directions. 

"Ballater?" The man behind the counter gave him a disbelieving look. "You're a bit off course for Ballater, mate." 

Declan took his change. "Yeah, I reckon the GPS is wonky, it took me into the middle of nowhere." 

The man tugged at his flat cap, and pulled a creased map off the rack on the counter. "You're on the wrong side of the mountains; you've got quite a ride." He marked a line on the map, ending in a big red X. "Now, Ballater's not on the map, mind, but it lies just north of Inverpattack."

A truck pulled in with a hiss of hydraulic brakes. The man shouted over his shoulder into the cafeteria. "Oy, Angie! Rashid's here, you got his lunch?" 

Declan peered at the map, tracing his path into the mountain. It wasn't so bad; depending on the roads, he'd only lost an hour or two. He put a pound down on the counter to cover the cost of the map, and went back to his bike, ducking around the bell of the tanker pulled up beside him. 

It wasn't until he was halfway around the mountains that Declan realised there was no reason for a tanker full of liquid nitrogen to wend its way into the mountains unless there was a lab waiting to receive it. He turned around at once. The needle on the fuel gauge was pushing empty as he hurtled towards the petrol station. When he got there, the damn place was closed and locked tight. 

Declan left the bike at the station and went on foot to the gravel bypass, cursing to himself softly as he walked. No cars passed him, and by the time he rounded the hill, it was nearly four and the daylight was thinning. He zipped up his coat, clambered over the wire fence behind the gravel, and headed into the trees. By the time it was almost dark, he could see lights twinkling merrily ahead. His optimism faded when he was stopped by a twelve-foot mesh fence with backward leaning spokes and bright yellow warning signs. The shape of the fence was familiar, and as he traced the fence line, he wracked his memory. When he heard the barking snarl of something moving through the brush on the other side of the fence, he remembered: it was enclosure fencing, and they used it in wildlife parks. Green eyes glinted in the twilight. He stepped backwards carefully, and felt something stubby press into his back. 

"'Ullo, mate. Let's go for a walk, shall we?" 

Declan couldn't see the speaker, but he'd put good money on it being the man from the petrol station. He raised his hands. "I'm not here to hurt anyone, all right? I'm looking for the Magnus Ark." 

"Don't know what you're talking about, but this is private property, right? So we're going to walk you back to the road. Angie's brought your bike up around, and we've given you a tankful gratis, so you can fuck off wherever you came from and never come back. We clear?" 

Somewhere off in the hills, a wolf howled, then another and another, a cascade of sound that drifted eerily through the trees. Behind him, the man with the gun swore. "Oh, you fuckers. Now you've torn it." 

The night burst into life in response: the cat beside them barked and snarled - definitely some kind of puma, Declan thought with detached horror - then something he couldn't identify yipped. Birds called and chattered and cooed. Barking, bleating, trumpeting and screeching, a cacophony echoed through the trees. 

Declan couldn't help himself, he laughed out loud. "You've got a bloody zoo here, haven't you? Why would Watson tuck a bunch of Abnormals all the way up here?" 

"You know Watson? He never sent you - he'd have called first." The man's voice was cautious. "And who the fuck are you calling Abnormal?" 

Declan's heart pinched hard. Jesus, would he ever stop having this conversation? "Listen, mate, I'm going to turn around, okay?" 

The man stepped back, but kept his rifle at his shoulder. "Go slow." 

"I'm from the Sanctuary. Does that mean anything to you?" 

The man shook his head. "Keep talking, though." 

"Watson's dead, mate. I'm sorry to break it to you like this, but I'm still finding out all the things he didn't tell people about. I'm here because someone up here sent me a parrot." 

The man's face cleared. "You've got Clarence? Why didn't you say so? Fuck, they breed them stupid down south." He fished in his pocket for a radio. "Angie, love? It's Clive. This bloke says he has Clarence. And look, go fetch Bridie, will you? I'm bringing him to the main house, he's got some news we need to hear." 

Declan sat in the overstuffed armchair and waited, pulling at his collar; the fire was blazing, and after the crisp chill outside, his face was glowing in the heat of the room. Angie, a solid black girl with a battered leather jacket, watched him from the door with crossed arms. 

The mantelpiece was lined with photographs, and Declan stood up to examine them, ignoring the warning creak of Angie's jacket. He picked one up, a sepia print in an antique silver frame. He held it out to Angie with a disbelieving expression. "Is that Helen Magnus?" 

Helen was wearing breeches and a broad-brimmed leather hat, and the feral grin that usually meant a mission had come to a successful ending. Beside stood two younger women, one with a parrot on her shoulder - Clarence, Declan presumed, from the general shape and dissolute expression, the other with the sleeve of her shirt pinned at the upper arm. 

"That's Imogen and Emily, in 1912." A tall, well-dressed older woman with grey hair scraped into a bun took the photo from Declan's hands and placed it carefully on the shelf. "Trapping cougar in Tennessee." She shook Declan's hand. "I'm Bridget Wood, Mr McRae. I believe you received a parcel from me. I'm so sorry to hear that James is no longer with us. We're a little out of the way out here - a deliberate decision on James' part, of course - and we don't always get news." 

"Why?" said Declan. "And why bring cougar back here?"

"To preserve them," said Bridget. "Why do you think we exist at all? Come along." She turned and left the room. Angie tilted her chin in the direction of the door, and Declan scrambled to catch up with the older woman. 

She led him through the old stone house, past teak dressers and framed maps and an umbrella stand made from a giant section of varnished bamboo, out onto a porch lined with potted plants. "Imogen and Emily settled here in the thirties to keep the Ark up; I think Magnus wanted them well and truly out of the way before the war got going in the Pacific." 

"I don't understand, you're talking about Helen Magnus?" said Declan. She spoke over the top of him as if he hadn't even opened his mouth. 

"What is so difficult to understand? She mentored Imogen and Emily, who went on to a lifetime of conservation work. Very ahead of their time, I might add. They'd have won all sorts of awards later in life, if only they were able to speak about it." Outside again, she tapped easily down stairs cut into the stone on a sharp incline. 

Declan skipped to keep up with her one hand on the wall beside him. "Why is the work a secret? We're talking about animals, here, right? Conservation is an everyday topic, at least these days." 

Bridget stopped at a wooden gate set into a wire fence. She gave the gate a sharp rattle, and whistled. "Emily was always ready to break the news. I think she fancied the idea of a press conference, right here at the bottom of the steps. She was a hundred and two when she went; twenty years without her Imogen. They always scared me a little, the older ladies. I was only six when I came here, you know. Emily used to poke me with her wooden arm; she was a terror." 

There was a skipping, rustling sound, as if something - many somethings - were bounding towards them. In the gloom, Declan saw low, yellow dogs with striped and spotted flanks. Their faces were lean and rattish, and they moved in a kind of hopping gait. He remembered suddenly stuttering black and white footage, a cowed-looking animal creeping hunched over in a close pen. Without thinking, he grabbed for Bridget's elbow in shock.

"Are they…?" 

She patted his hand kindly. "Thylacine, yes. We have a pack of seventeen at the moment, two separate clans we've just brought back together. You have to manage quite carefully, with such a small gene pool." Bridget threw a handful of pellets into the pen, and the animals scuffled in the undergrowth. "Liver treats," she said. "They're mad for them. Imogen would be furious - we're not supposed to spoil them like this, but we don't often get visitors." 

Liver treats. For the thylacines. Declan realised that his reaction to the animals was visceral, a clench of the stomach, a burst of adrenaline at seeing something that should not exist. 

"This is the Ark, Mr McRae. The Thylacine, the Eastern cougar, the Cape lion are all kept here. We've got the Sumatran rhinoceros further in, the Arabian ostrich. And there's the aviary, the greenhouse, the aquarium. But nothing quite has the impact of the Thylacine, does it? It's so much easier to understand." 

"But why have I never heard of this place? It's named for Helen Magnus, it's paid for out of Sanctuary accounts. Why are you hiding out here in the Cairngorms? We could all be working together."

Bridget frowned. "It's always been the rule that we must never initiate contact with Doctor Magnus, that one day, when it's safe, she'll come to us. It's never happened in my lifetime, though I think that Imogen wrote to her sometimes. And there was always Watson if we needed money, or equipment or assistance. I was surprised when his letters dropped off. I remember he was at Imogen's funeral. And later, Emily's." 

"Watson is gone," said Declan, and this time, maybe, it stung a little less to tell the news. "Nobody knew you were here." 

Bridget took his arm and led him down a path paved with moss-covered stones. "Well, then. We must make you feel at home. There's still enough light; let me show you around." 

"Thanks," said Declan, with one glance over his shoulder at the striped dogs still snuffling on the ground for treats. "You know, the Sumatran rhinoceros isn't actually extinct, yet. Maybe we can organise some kind of exchange, get your breeding stock into the genetic pool somehow. I guess it would have to be done in secret, but we can manage that." 

"Smuggling rhinoceros sperm? Mr McRae, that is exactly the spirit with which this Ark was founded." Bridget took him around a corner, and the land opened up in front of him: habitats and enclosures tucked between the trees, a lifetime of work that should never have existed but was wonderful to see.


End file.
